Jaded Dragon: Hatchling
by Shadowslash
Summary: Just a late night, pensive ramble by Goau on life, his new wife Varie, and their infant son Folken.


Well, this can be taken as a stand-alone, or the first part of many to come. Depends on my inspiration. :-) This is a POV fic, behind the eyes of Goau. I've tried to be as IC as I could, given that you don't see much of his character during the series, and as timeline-accurate as I could, given what info I could dig up at the Compendium. Wonderfully info-chocked site. Do check it out.   
Obligatory Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. The setting isn't either. Gee, how surprising. Don't sue, you'll just get a big fat lawyer's bill for your trouble.  
  
Jaded Dragon  
Hatchling (Part I?)  
  
It's a beautiful evening. Spring has settled in to stay and the weather has finally acknowledged that, thank the Protector. It's about damn time the cold went packing. Both moons, Phantom and non, unveiled by clouds, shine their full faces serenely on my kingdom as it goes to sleep and, for once, the night breeze isn't chill. An excellent night for moon-gazing, and just a perfect, peaceful evening all told. Well, peaceful but for the wail. Sounds like little Folken is awake again, and angry about something.  
The matronly nurse is still a little unsure about what to do with me, a man in a place traditionally for women only, but she gently hands the bawling infant over to me when I ask, without the stutterings and stammerings about proprieties that accompanied many of my earlier attempts to come in here. There are privileges to being King, and if I want to hold my baby son in the middle of the night, I'm bloody well going to hold my baby son in the middle of the night! I take advice, not orders, from nurses, advisors, or tradition, and if I choose to ignore that advice, I will.  
A wise man would think they'd have figured that out by now, if not five years earlier, when I brought Varie home to be my bride. My advisors sought to tell me then, *they* sought to prohibit *me*, from marrying the woman I love. "Bewitched", they said, just as Balgus had done that night at the pond, though they did not have his sense to leave be when I'd made up my mind. It was unconscionable, they said, for an heir to the proud and strong line of Fanelian kings to even think of marrying one such as her; cursed Atlantean, demonic Draconian. "Nothing good will come of it!" they cried. "You'll curse the whole of Fanelia for the sake of a witch-woman!" I told them the same thing I told Balgus; she may very well have bewitched me, and for such a beautiful woman as her, I'd gladly give up my soul. She has it, too, though the more I've gotten to know her, the less I believe she acquired it through spellcraft. She is an amazing woman, strong of heart and body, sharp of mind, and fair in temper and beauty. She far surpasses those dainty Asturian and Egzadian flowers my advisors had been none-too-subtly throwing at me for years beforehand. I could never believe Fanelia would ever come to harm because of her. She loves my country as much as I do. As much as she loves me. Though I scarce understand why, she seems as bewitched by me as I am by her (mind you, I'm not complaining). The advisors protests be damned, I said I'd marry her, so marry her I will. And I did.  
And what has come of it? Peace. These last five years have been some of the most peaceful Fanelia has seen since my father was a boy, no new wars knocking on our doors nor allies calling for assistance. Plenty. The crops and people prosper, and the Forest with its dragons has been quiet yet yielding good hunts. A son. *My* son. The smile feels fit to split my face in half.  
Before he left on his travels three years ago, Balgus was inordinately fond of pointing out that I'd done more grinning since I met Varie than I did when I was a mooncalf boy. And most of those grins were of the "idiot" or "smitten" variety. My three remaining Generals had no qualms taking up where he left off, though otherwise they are practical and sensible men.  
But ahh, my son, my precious heir (bawling though he may still be). Hn. My advisors have been noticeably less vociferous in their disapproval of Varie in the two and a half months since she birthed my son. There is an heir for the throne, and none of their predicted kingdom-wide disasters, so they have naught left on which to base accusations. Would that I could live without them, but, curse it, they do sometimes have worthwhile things to say.  
Folken Lacour de Fanel. My *son*. Varie sometimes laughingly tells me that she fears my face will freeze in one of the ridiculous smiles I've been subjecting it to. I named him, as is my duty as his father, though she convinced me of "Folken". An Atlantean name, but sounding enough of a solid Fanelian one as not to raise the ire of the ever-choosy advisors. "Lacour" is for my own father, dead these past seven years. All in all, a good, proper name for the one who will be King after me.  
The nurse still looks on somewhat anxiously (as if I'd drop him! scales and teeth, woman, I'm one of the best warriors in Fanelia, I've got enough control over myself not to drop so dear a bundle!) and somewhat oddly as I bob this way and that, shushing Folken (though he seems quite content to continue howling despite my efforts). I guess it is a fairly odd sight to see so large a man as myself, though I'm not greatly above the average man, bouncing like I have springs in my heels and making both silly faces and noises in an attempt to entertain an infant. Entirely unkingly behavior, I'm sure.  
By the Protector and all his Dragons in the forest, does he have a set of lungs! Still not finished yelling, hm? You'll never have a problem making your orders heard over the clamor of battle, that's for certain. Well, let's come over and look at the moons. Tucking the wrap a little closer around Folken's tiny body so that the nurse won't fuss, I swing open the shutters and let the night in. Yes, an excellent night for moon-gazing. The white shrouds of the Phantom Moon are mostly absent tonight, showing a wide expanse of blue sea, most suppose it's sea anyway, curling in from one side and green-brown of a large land mass, a much smaller speck of brown below it, curling off to the other.  
Sometimes I wonder, when I allow myself to go wit-wandering and moon-gazing, if Atlanteans still live on the Phantom Moon, or if anyone at all lives on it. I wonder, when Varie sleeps soundly, nestled at my chest, where she lived before I saw her that destined night at the pond. She rarely speaks of it, and I rarely ask. Yet I cannot help but think about it on occasion. Did she live up there? Or did she live in the Phantom Valley, where stories say Atlanteans had their home ages ago. Or perhaps someplace else entirely? I may never know.  
As they always seem to do, soft hands and voice interrupt my musings. Varie, almost as if she were called by my thoughts, slips up to my side, (pressing quite a bit of her night-gowned body against me in the process, a ... less civilized piece of me notes) gently smiling while carefully taking a *still* crying Folken.  
"He's hungry," she says, baring her breast so that he can suckle. Almost instantly the cries cease, replaced by contented murmurs.  
"Ah," my brilliant answer, sent over my shoulder. I watch the moons, so as not to stare at something that's been declared off limits to me for the time being. My son shouldn't have to share, apparently.  
She laughs that quiet laugh that always brightens my heart. "Matilde would have told you that, had you let her."  
"Hn."  
A wider smile, and a more mischievous lilt to the giggles, "You just wanted a chance to play with him, didn't you?"  
"A father should be able to see his infant son when he wants to. Isn't that the normal way of things?"  
The laughter stops. "The normal way... Yes. But what of this is normal?"  
For a man as adept as myself at political and military maneuverings, it is almost shameful how I blunder like a ham-fisted novice when it comes to being what all men should naturally become: a husband and a father. And I know she does not refer to our social station alone with that comment.  
We kept my beloved wife's true lineage fairly quiet during the wedding ceremony and all the political fracas before and after it, but reliable word did spread through out the castle, and rumor beyond that. Varie hardly ever shows her glorious angel's wings to anyone besides myself, and excepting the two small marks on her forehead, she is indistinguishable from any good human woman in looks or behavior. But the advisors, my generals and a few of the staff know, while the rest of the palace suspects. Rumors of varying credibility still run rampant in the town and down into the scattered villages. Our proximity to many of the Beast Peoples and our trade with them has made them far more welcome here than in many other countries, but the Atlanteans, well, they are rare and mythical enough that many Fanelians still view them as demons and harbingers of disaster.  
Hooking a chair over with my heel, then hooking my wife and son over with my arms, I settle all of us down by the window. Varie snuggles shamelessly close, her back to my chest and my cheek resting against her silky hair, Folken still nursing happily.  
Fortunately, as Balgus did, my generals and higher officers overcame any superstitions they may have held, and now most are very fond of Varie. The advisors have grown accustomed to her (either that, or they have given up on the subject), and, for whatever their reasons, many others of the serving staff have accepted her for whatever she is, even if they aren't entirely sure she's other than human. I have it on report that a not inconsiderable number of the rest of the population holds an opinion along the same lines.  
What worries me greatest, however, is not my own people. It is the rest of Gaea. True, Fanelia does not have that extensive of contact with foreign nations, but it still happens. Varie, wondrous though she is, has accepted the role of good wife and good queen, limiting her involvement in politics to advice given in privacy, thus staying clear of dangerous circles and prying eyes.  
Folken is her son as equally as he is mine, and he will be King. He will not be able to avoid those circles, those of the nobility who do not view Atlanteans in a favorable light. What would they think of a man who is half Atlantean, and a king, no less?  
Varie assures me that he will have wings like hers, once he grows old enough and his "magic" grows strong enough. Likely by the time he reaches 3 years, she says, though it will be longer than that before he can fly. I would believe her even if I had not seen the two short, faint, almost scar-like lines that run next to his tiny shoulderblades.   
We have had many a discussion about this, she and I. The credibility of Folken, indeed, of any of our future children (for there are more planned and desired), as a leader of human men and a human nation could be in severe jeopardy if his heritage became common knowledge. Hells, even his *life* could be in greater danger than a king's usually is. Yet, we dare not completely stifle his natural differences. Besides being cruel, that would be an insult to both my son and my wife, and I will do nothing to harm them.  
So what balance between the two do we strike? I fear that may be a question all three of us will wrestle with for far more years than any of us expect.  
It has already been decided that no one outside those who now know will be informed. It must be kept an implausible rumor as far as any other nations are concerned. The only difference in Folken's upbringing will be in the extend of mine and Varie's involvement in it.  
I will give him my best. I will teach him everything I know about war, politics and people. I will show him just judgement, good strategy, and the most effective ways to lead men and make them love you for it. In short, I will make him a King among kings, adored of all. Fatherly pride has me say he deserves no less. Prudence has me say it is imperative he be no less. He must be flawless, in case his wings ever come to light in the public stage. He must be skilled enough, loved enough, so that his right to rule remains unquestioned even in the shadow of his lineage. It's the only way he'll survive.   
The person in question grumbles as only a sleepy baby can, and Varie lifts him to her shoulder, patting his back to burp him. Waitaminute... If my little Folken were to decide to.... As he sometimes does... It'd go right on...  
Varie's face is pure innocence as I give her a peeved look. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice you will not do. Picking her up by the waist and resettling her sideways on my lap clears up that hazard quite nicely, getting her to pout prettily into the bargain. You would not believe this woman's penchant for pranks. Be assured she will get her comeuppance as soon as Folken is put back to bed, and other witnesses are scarce.  
Yes, there may be some things about my Varie that cause me to wonder, but I don't wonder that we belong together, or what it was that brought us together. We both completely agree about that one.  
Destiny.  
Simple Fate, if one can call such a mysterious working 'simple', decreed that we should both be at that one place at that one time, and that we would leave together. Everyone has a Destiny, and plain truth says that it will see Itself, carried out. No man can argue with it. No, not even Kings can argue with such as that. We run our lives as best we can, praying that Fate will have things go the way we want them to. I nightly thank the Protector, and every other deity in the pantheons, that I have been blessed with such a perfect Destiny.   
My most fervent wish is that Folken will be granted the same.  
  



End file.
